3:30 to 5:45 A sleep prematurely torn between the folds of sheets tired and ambiguous. The fear of a long-awaited day, many times already lived.
Another breath, long, hanging, captures the last moments before leaving to go silent each symptom of inertia, take interview with courage and a glimmer of hope that the terrible gimmick has relentlessly to reveal the news, almost mockingly are only 3:30 at night.
Now a sigh, a sigh is just what we want. Even this long, dragged minutes, interviewed, almost could respond to the flurry of thoughts that overlap hesitating on the threshold of the mind. But there is only emptiness and silence around, and nothing terrible and implacable. The ear stretched, at least he knows what to do: is to discover secrets, takes every single piece of muffled sound of the neighbors, maybe even their prey to night follies. Now a rustling, then nothing, now the steps, then, only after a long silence, pours water from a tap. Yeah, that sound is unmistakable, unstoppable. It breaks any semblance of silence and emptiness that we can be, bursting as it is in its nature, the water will not submit the request to maintain a sound also complies with the rest of the night. And so blatantly revealed in a brief moment that for minutes, who knows, maybe hours, someone had tried to conceal, to keep jealously hidden from prying ears and curious, like mine.
Still nothing, and waiting is long.
The pastime of discovering the sounds of the night gave way to relentless thoughts that cast away, as enemies in assault to my fortress. It is not yet time for them, not now. They can question me later, like all other normal people who look out the window, take a breath of fresh air for breakfast and then begin their brave new small challenges. What is right is right. Time will be even then, between a strand of unruly hair and to fix the line waiting to get on the damn train, we might as well take care of them, turning them, confuse, deceive. They do not have the slightest right to make their way in this fragile time, when everything seems more distant, alien. Who are they to win over me, my willpower? I could leave them in suspense, play them the trick to turn off this light, to hide again between the covers, close your eyes and mimic the deep breath of a peaceful sleep. Perhaps the only way they will go: up the white flag, will be back in a few hours with his tail between his legs. Try not harmful, especially when intolerance becomes more acute.
So be it.
Back in the dark and silent this wretched place. Back to keep me company. I feel almost laugh, laugh of my defeat, of having links to his humble duty to reign in his hours. All we need is the dark is making fun of me to complete the picture of this night that will not go, who wants to put chains on their eyes wide open to make the agonizing wait even more painful. And after all I am to his game, yes, I can do.
How could I think, moreover, to win against the combination of darkness, silence and everything else surrounding my bed every night? They are relentless, as the time passes, or does not pass. As the summer sun, as the birds in spring, like autumn leaves that fall flat in their winter sleep. Unstoppable. Clichés of our lives, mark our days, our years, our entire existence, as though he really a purpose, a purpose, a goal which we crossed in peace and leave healthy, proud of having reached the goal. But it reduces our being here? Our being alive? The relentless desire to amass fortunes, appearances to entertain, to feel more and more important and powerful every single day. We'll lose everything anyway, let what we avidly collected in the hands of other beings, greedy and conceited, who think they have their hand in everything that is important in the world. Of course I let him believe. As private of laughter when I see them struggling, weary, they juggle with subtle cunning for what one day will find to be more empty than the rest? The appearance is still maintained. Sooner or later they will pay their expenses to the greed of the day of success. I wonder if they also spent their nights like this, if they have had for a while even one of these thoughts that my mind instead produces a tireless and so I put up every day, and sometimes not only the days.
He returned the sound of water, and only now I realized my defeat. Not only did I have peace from these inconclusive reasoning, but I also clumsily pretended sleep ever. Kobarid, on all fronts. Bleak as the beginning of the day. Yes, because something tells me that extending the arm, I'll see numbers finally nice and pleasing to the eye, smile at me, trying to give me a bit 'of relief. 5.45. I had said. Now I can I look out the window, pretending rest and joy for a new day of new challenges, take the road of my thoughts, of those who accompanied me already tonight, and with the hair out of place stubbornly sneak quietly among unsuspecting passersby and heedless.
